Gemotions

A tremor ran through Leo’s hands, making him drop his half-eaten sandwich. The sandwich splattered onto the pristine pavement, forgotten. His street art, his meticulously crafted murals, were now presented on enormous canvases, in a building with a revolving door and a stern-faced security guard. He felt like he was watching a bad dream play out, a grotesque distortion of his intentions.

He felt a strong urge to run. He felt exposed, naked. The whole situation felt wrong. He'd never intended to sell these; they were a conversation with the city, not a transaction. His pulse hammered in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the polite murmur of the gallery visitors. He felt a deep sense of dread.

He stared at his work, now stripped of its context, of its life on the gritty brick walls. They'd taken his art, and in doing so, they had taken something of him.